


adventures in adolescence

by Vera (Vera_DragonMuse)



Series: sins of our fathers [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Case Fic, Grief, Jam, M/M, Night Terrors, Pancakes, Teenagers, loss of a parent
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-22
Updated: 2012-01-28
Packaged: 2017-10-29 22:20:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 19,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/324793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vera_DragonMuse/pseuds/Vera
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A spark was all it took to change John's path, throwing him in Sherlock's way twenty-five years early.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This contains no spoilers. It will eventually contain non-explicit sexual intimacy between two teenagers. Which I suppose is a spoiler, but only for this fic.

“Did you dream last night?” Dr. Taylor asked in her quiet, cajoling way.

John stared resolutely out the window, watching crows flock in the alleyway below. Someone had knocked over a bin and the garbage made them a feast.

“How are you doing in school?” She tapped her pen against her notebook.

The room was decorated in bright cheerful colors and filled with the kind of toys that would appeal to young children. He liked the space. He even liked Dr. Taylor. It was only that she was so earnest about helping him. Healing him. As if he were an open wound that only needed the right stitches instead of a living boy struggling with too much loss and anger.

“All right, tell me anything then. Anything that’s on your mind.”

There was a boy wearing a public school uniform standing at the lip of the alleyway and though he couldn’t have been more than fourteen, pulling a cigarette from his pocket. When he lit it, smoke billowed around the dark, curly hair in a ephemeral halo.

He stood there for the rest of John’s session, watching the birds. John couldn’t make out his expression. It was a good distraction and made the usual hour of silence pass by much quicker.

“Whatever you say in this room stays here.” Dr. Taylor repeated at the end of their hour as she always did. “You can always call me. Any time, John.”

“Thank you.” He said politely, picked up his book-bag and left as quickly as he dared.

The boy was still watching the birds though the cigarette and all evidence of smoke was long gone. Now that his face was no longer an indistinct smudge, John could make out sharp cheekbones, thin lips and darting eyes that took in all of the feathery carnage.

“You all right then?” John asked conversationally.

“Dr. Taylor’s five p.m.” The boy didn’t so much as look up.

“Excuse me?”

“Was it arson or accident?”

John froze, his blood turning to ice.

“How did you-”

“I observed it. Obvious.” The boy snorted and finally turned to look at him. There was something curiously still about his face, except for those eyes.

“Not to me. If you’ve seen me, how come I’ve never seen you?”

“Dr. Wilcox, four o’clock. We’ve passed each other in the hallway, but you always look straight ahead. You don’t seem to see anything.” He shrugged. “Well, come on then.”

“Come on where?”

“You were about to walk home. You’re three blocks from me. It’s inevitable that we walk it together.”

“How do you know where I live? Who are you?”

“Sherlock Holmes.” Sherlock didn’t offer his hand to shake, instead he started to walk away. “Are you coming?”

“Should I tell you my name or do you already know that too?”

“Not a clue. Probably something bland and traditional.”

“It’s John.” He muttered.

“John.” Sherlock repeated, a faint smile on his lips. “You didn’t answer my first question, arson or accident?”

“None of your bloody business.” John spat, but didn’t break pace. Sherlock was a few inches taller than him and walked with intention. It took a little effort to keep up. “How’d you know about the fire then?”

“You’ve got burn scars on your hands. Recent. Six, seven months? Probably where you put them up to protect your face. There’s some scarring in your hairline and chin, but none around your eyes or nose. You're wouldn’t be here seeing a psychiatrist who specializes in traumatized children.” Sherlock spoke so quickly that it came out a little smeared. “You don’t have any of the tells of someone who’s been abused, ergo it was most likely a single event on a large scale. Burn marks say fire, recent too. A near inferno, the type of thing that would send a fifteen year old to therapy.”

“Sixteen.” John corrected absently. "My birthday was last week."

“Sixteen.” Sherlock shrugged. “But the fire?”

“Yes, there was one.” John glanced over at him. “Why does it matter to you?”

“It doesn’t.”

“Liar.” John laughed surprising both of them. “It’s probably been driving you mad for weeks. You’ve practically been stalking me.”

“I have not!” Sherlock’s nostrils flared in irritation. “Only took me a quick look to figure you out. You’re not a complicated person.”

“Guess not. So what about you then?”

“What about me?”

“You know so much about me and I don’t know anything about you. Let’s make it fair.”

“Why?” And now those clever eyes were narrowing in suspicion.

“That’s how you become mates, isn’t it?”

“Is it?” Sherlock said dryly.

“Way I’ve always done it. Look, I’ll even give you a freebie. I’ve got a little sister named Harriet. She’s pretty cute when she’s not being a nutter.”

“Ah.” There was a brief, tense pause before Sherlock finally said, “Older brother away at college. I loathe him.”

“Loathe?”

“I plan to go to war with him as soon as we’re both influential enough to have armies.”

“Huh.” John didn’t doubt for a second that Sherlock meant it. “That’s some bad sibling rivalry.”

“And your sister? Why is she a nutter?”

“Tell you what, why don’t you come in and find out?” They weren’t far from John’s apartment now. Much closer than three blocks. Beyond the street was a local park and stores. He couldn’t imagine someone as posh as Sherlock living above shops. It seemed the other boy had already decided to follow him home whether he realized it or not.

“All right.” Sherlock agreed tentatively like he might be agreeing to an execution. “Just for a few minutes.”

The apartment was tidy enough though it was cramped with the three of them. John wasn’t ashamed of it anyway. Harry was sitting in the kitchen spreading jam thinly over a piece of toast. She had her hair up in pigtails, one slightly higher than the other.

“Johnny, do you know how to make jam?” She asked immediately, wielding the butter knife like a weapon.

“Not the faintest clue.” He waved in Sherlock’s direction. “This is Sherlock.”

“Hello.” Harry looked Sherlock over then turned the knife on him. “Do you know how to make jam?”

“No.” Sherlock looked annoyed by this admittance.

“Then what use are either of you?” Harry sighed and turned back to her toast. “Mum says she left dinner to heat up and don’t wait up for her, it’s a school night John Hamish Watson and she’s a grown woman etc.”

“Lovely.” John blushed faintly before grabbing Sherlock’s sleeve, pulling him towards his bedroom. “Do your homework, I’ll check it over later.”

“Homework is oppression of my natural curiosity!” She called out to his closing door.

“Why jam?” Sherlock asked, even as he turned a slow circle around the room.

“Who knows? She gets like that. She’ll forget about in a day or two then it’s a new obsession.”

It was a small room, but John didn’t own very much, so it never mattered. A bed neatly made, bins underneath to store books, comics and some lego. There were no posters on the walls or photos on his desk. Just a typewriter and a stack of papers next to it. He wondered what Sherlock could tell from the barren space and for the first time since they’d moved here, wondered what he made of it himself. It was sort of depressing on the whole.

“Do you like card games?” He asked, drawing out a deck more to occupy his hands then anything else.

“Chance.” Sherlock sniffed, but he shrugged out of his blazer and sat down in the office chair. John perched on the bed. “I prefer games of skill.”

“Yeah, bet you’re a regular beast at Risk.” He shuffled idly. “How about Rummy?”

“Rummy?”

“It’s my Mum’s favorite.” John rattled off the rules as he dealt out the hand. Sherlock seemed to be only half-listening, but as they started to play it was clear he had already mastered the rules.

“Remind me never to play poker with you.” John laughed as he lost another round.

“I’ve no interest in poker.”

“What does interest you then? Besides crows and me?”

“I like chemistry.” Sherlock said cautiously as though the conversation itself was a kind of chemical reaction that might go up in smoke at any moment. “I like figuring things out. Not like logic puzzles or crosswords, but real puzzles.”

“Like a locked room murder mystery?” John was more than a little fond of such books himself.

“Yes, exactly.” He looked surprised and looked John over more intensely. “I want to solve the unsolvable.”

“So you’re going to get on the force then?”

“Perhaps.”

The conversation flowed more easily after that as John explained about the cheap paperbacks under his bed. Sherlock made him dig them out and started to flip through them, explaining the endings with unerring accuracy after only a few pages.

“That’s amazing.” John laughed after Sherlock tossed another one aside.

The next book came up quickly, hiding the lower half of Sherlock’s face, but John could make out the pleased grin and returned it with one of his own.

“Oh hey, it’s nearly seven.” John commented a little later. “I’ve got to take care of dinner.”

“Right, of course. I should-”

“Eat with us.” John supplied. “I mean, unless you have to get home. You can call your parents if you want. Only Harry never eats what Mum leaves us.” John usually wound up eating it for lunch to keep it from going to waste.

“I don’t eat much.”

“Yeah, I can tell.”

Sherlock had the same gangly slenderness of many of John’s classmates though all of them usually ate like it was their job. John had yet to have the same kind of growth spurt and was starting to doubt it would ever happen.

“I’ll need to make a brief call.”

“Sure, phone’s in the kitchen. I’ve got to check on Harry.”

He couldn’t make out Sherlock’s low voice on the phone, but he sounded tense. John frowned as he went over sheets of multiplication for Harry. She leaned heavily into him until he put an arm around her shoulder.

“He’s strange.” She whispered directly into John’s ear.

“I know, but I like him.” John grinned when she frowned at him. “Well I like you and your strange.”

“I am not strange.” Her fist drove right between his ribs and he couldn’t hide the wince. “Sorry.”

“S’alright. You’re getting to be a strong one.” He rubbed the tender spot. “Though you still can’t figure out your 12 times table.”

“It’s booooring.”

“It is.” Sherlock agreed as he hung up the phone. “Dull stuff. Calculators can manage it. They only make us learn it to take up valuable space in our heads.”

“Why would they do that?” Harry’s forehead wrinkled.

“Because then you can’t think about why none of it makes sense. School is a mad concept. Everyone has to learn everything despite clear indications that some are not equipped to learn certain subjects and should be allowed free reign on what they’re naturally good at.”

“Without trying a little bit of everything, how would people know what their good at?” John asked, signing a permission slip in a messy blur that had been stuck among other papers. “You’ve got to try things first.”

“That wouldn’t take long. By the time the average person is seven all their personality traits are set. Why bother with anything past that?”

“I like him too.” Harry announced. “Also, I don’t want eggs now. I’d like pancakes.”

“I...what?” It was Sherlock’s turn to wrinkle his brow.

“Welcome to the Watson Cafe. Short order cookery at it’s finest.” John crossed to the fridge and rooted out the preserved dinner. Meatloaf and mashed potatoes. The meatloaf was burnt and the potatoes looked weirdly solid. It would do for lunch for him, but he wouldn’t inflict it on Sherlock. “Pancakes for everyone.”

“I want a skull and crossbones!” Harry chimed, already opening the draw with cutlery to set the table.

“I’ll do my best.” He took down the skillet and turned on the electric stove-top. “Any requests, Sherlock?”

“Johnny makes the best face pancakes.” Harry explained, folding the napkins into hats.

“The best?’ Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Well, it’s not hard.” The butter sizzled over the cast iron before John carefully daubed batter in the approximate shape of the Jolly Roger. “As long as you don’t expect too many details.”

“Why would you bother?”

“Why not? It’s fun.” He watched the pan carefully, flipping when the edges began to bubble. Harry’s insistence on consuming only breakfast foods the last few months had made him an expert. “Regular pancakes are boring.”

“They’ll taste the same.” Sherlock pointed out. John reached for a banana and cut off two slices, placing them on the skull for eyes.

“Don’t you ever bite the arms off a gingerbread man first?”

An artless bored shrug met the question, leaving John puzzled as he handed Harry her dinner.

“How about this then?”

Making a magnifying glass was actually pretty simple, but the twitch of Sherlock's lips when he accepted his plate increased John’s satisfaction threefold. They ate gathered close around the table. Sherlock took neat bites, not touching the syrup or butter. He barely seemed to notice he was eating, paying more mind to John and Harry’s conversation which quickly degenerated into a fork fencing battle.

“Enough of that!”John protested when she came near to stabbing his hand. “Go wash up.”

“You parent her.” Sherlock observed after Harry had sulked her way into the bathroom.

“Mum is a nurse and she works a lot of night shifts. I’m home, so I do it.” He waited for the next question, the one that still hurt every time someone asked it. It never came.

“Mycroft used to do the same.” Sherlock poked at the remains of his pancake. “He wasn’t nearly as good at it.”

“Ta, I think.” He picked up the plates and piled them into the sink.

“I should go.” Standing abruptly, Sherlock nearly tipped the chair over.

“You don’t have to.”

“No, I...” For a moment he seemed to waver, then he was gone retrieving his blazer before heading out the door. “Good night, John.”

“Night, Sherlock.”

Out of curiosity, John drifted to the window and watched as the lean figure appeared on the steps outside. Another cigarette had appeared, already lit and between thin lips. He turned back towards the doctor’s office and started walking at a brisk pace, trailing smoke behind him. John wondered at the sudden pang of loss that overtook him then. It happened like that sometimes. He wouldn’t even be thinking about his father and then the grief would come over him all at once.

“Did he go?” Harry poked her head into the living room.

“Yeah. Come on, let’s take a crack at that book of yours.”

They pressed together on her bed, The Sword in the Stone by T. H. White spread open between them. Switching off pages, they read aloud until Harry’s eyes started to droop. John tucked her in and headed into his bedroom to start his homework. It wasn’t hard stuff and soon finished. Eventually, he wandered back out into the living room. He pulled an afghan over his legs, switched on the telly and waited for his mother.

A calloused hand brushed over his forehead in the wee hours of the morning.

“Johnny.” She chided. “You’re not to wait up for me.”

“I have too.” He protested, too sleepy to turn away from the caress. “What if something happens? I wouldn’t know for hours.”

“You worry too much.” She settled in next to him on the couch. “Did you have a good session with Dr. Taylor?”

“Fine.” He opened his eyes slowly to take in the unearthly predawn light. His mother was a delicate woman, yet in her nursing whites there was something strong, if weary about her. Loss had etched fine lines around her eyes and mouth. Some tiny part of him longed to crawl into her lap and be soothed, but he was too old for such things and anyway, he worked hard not to add to her burdens to ruin it all now.

“I had a friend over.” He blurted out and watched her smile emerge. He’d had a lot of friends once, boisterous rugby boys that left the house a mess. Since the fire and the move, he’d become more solitary and it was another thing to gnaw at her.

“Oh, who?”

“Sherlock. I met him at Dr. Taylor’s. He doesn’t live far from here.”

“You should have him over to supper tomorrow. I’ll be home.” She reminded him. “You could have an evening to yourself, if you like. Go see a film.”

“That’s all right. I didn’t remember to get his number, actually. I will next time.”

Which wouldn’t be until Wednesday if he could catch him. John found himself looking forward to his appointment for the first time since the therapy sessions had started in September. Not that he had much time to think about it between school, managing Harry and earning a few quid running errands for the landlady. He wanted to get a proper job, but his mother wouldn’t hear of it.

As it turned out though, he did see Sherlock before Wednesday. It was Sunday and Mum had sent him out to get milk and fresh air, so he took the long meandering way home. He spotted the wind tousled black curls from a few blocks away. Sherlock wasn’t alone though. At first, John thought it might just be a group of mates gathered up to talk, but as he got closer it became clear that the tenor was quite different. Four boys, shorter than Sherlock, but far bulkier, were gathered round him and drawing in closer. Sherlock had been backed up to a wall with a careful veneer of indifference painted on his face. Even from this distance though John could spot his hands clamping into tight fists.

“Freak!” A punch flew catching Sherlock on the jaw and John broke into a run. He could see Sherlock fighting back, not random flailing, but sharp deliberate hits. There were too many against him though and by the time John reached him it was already turning from a fight to a beating.

John didn’t bother announcing his arrival. He jumped in and started throwing punches, a maelstrom of fists and feet. The thrill of the fight surged through him as they turned on him. Another tactical mistake as Sherlock was still on his feet. They corralled the bullies between the two of them and soon had them on the run.

One of them yelled a weak, “Watch your back, Holmes!” before disappearing around the corner.

John bent over double, regaining his breath. When he looked up, Sherlock was leaning against the brick wall of a shop, staring at him.

“Your lip is bleeding.” John commented before pulling a tissue from his pocket. He’d meant to just hand it to the other boy, but somehow he was crossing the space between them, reaching up to press it to the wound. Sherlock’s hand shot up, fingers circling John’s wrist as it to throw him off. Instead, they rested there, almost tender. “Looks like you pissed them off.”

“It happens.”

“I’ll bet. So what’d you do?”

“No idea, actually. Could be any number of things.” As he spoke the cut on his lip spilled bright red blood onto John’s tissue and fingers. “Why did you join in?”

“Don’t like seeing anyone get roughed up.” John tried not to pay attention to the quick pink dart of Sherlock’s tongue testing the wound. “Especially if the odds were bad.”

“Ah, fairness.”

“That too.” John frowned. “Come on, then. Let’s get you back to my place and we can get cleaned up.”

“What about your mother?”

“She’ll scold me than dote on you.” John pushed Sherlock to take control of the near useless tissue. “Don’t worry.”

“I am not worried. I simply don’t require medical attention.”

“Well then she’ll make us tea.” John set off and wasn’t much surprised to find Sherlock keeping pace with him. “Are they likely to try again?”

“Probably. It’s hardly the first time.” Sherlock said carelessly. “Idiots.”

“You go to the Academy, right?”

“Mmm.” Sherlock’s attention was already elsewhere.

“John!” His mother tsked as soon as they walked in the front door.

“Mum, this is my friend Sherlock. Some local kids were beating him up. Can you look at his lip?”

“Jackals.” She hissed, already placing a proprietary hand on Sherlock’s chin. His friend stiffened, but her hold was sure. “Did you get a good look at them? I’ve a mind to call the police. If adults do things like this its called assault!”

“It isn’t worth it, Mum. They’ll only make his life harder afterwards.”

“Mrs. Watson-” Sherlock began.

“Please, call me Emma.” She shooed him into the kitchen. “Let me clean that out for you. It’s not deep enough for stitches. Should I call your mother?”

“No.” Sherlock sat down carefully, eyes glued to John’s Mum as she took out a first aid kit. “I’ll tell her when I get home.”

“John, put the kettle on.” She tsked as she set about cleaning the cut.

“Yes, Mum.”

After more maternal fussing they were allowed to settle onto the sofa, cards flashing between them as they shared a peaceful silence of a kind long ago perfected by all young men. Sherlock left reluctantly when the sun started to set.

“Let me walk you home.” John reached for his jacket, but Sherlock shook his head once curtly before disappearing out into the lengthening shadows.

“What an odd boy.” His mother clucked. “But I’m glad your making friends, Johnny.”

“Yeah. Me too.” He didn’t dare cross to the window to catch a trace of Sherlock on the sidewalk, too afraid of what he might give away.

The next day he put his plan into action. The Academy started later than his school, so there was nothing to be done in the morning, but in the afternoon, he easily slipped away at the first possible moment and headed up the hill to wait by great iron gates. He leaned against a stone pillar, not quite hiding as cars pulled up to gather in uniformed boys. If Sherlock was picked up then John could walk home and lose nothing.

The last of the cars were gone and all the other boys dispersed in groups, talking and laughing like a river of hormonal humanity, before Sherlock emerged through the gates, a tight caution in his step.

“Hullo.” John smiled. Sherlock whirled on him, a flash of silver taking him off guard. “Jesus, is that a knife?”

“Yes.” Suddenly relaxed, Sherlock opened his palm to reveal a tiny penknife. “You can relax. It’s hardly dangerous.”

“Just enough to scare someone off.” He shook his head. “Come on then.”

“Where?”

“We live three blocks apart. We’ll inevitably walk home together anyway.” John parroted.

“Your school is entirely the other direction.” Thin lips tightened into a hard line. “I don’t need a bodyguard.”

“Good thing I’m just a mate then, isn’t it?” He pulled a ragged paperback from his bag. “Anyway, I thought you might like to read this. Finished it at lunch today and I bet you won’t guess the ending before chapter three.”

It turned out Sherlock could read while walking and that John had been wrong. He knew within fifteen pages. When he was finished tearing the poor thing apart, he mimed tossing it over his shoulder. John didn’t quite catch the moment when he made it disappear nor did he hear it hit the ground.

They wound up standing in front of John’s building again.

“Am I ever going to find out where you live?”

“Perhaps.” Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets. Above them a window flew open and Harry stuck her head out:

“I need you both to pretend to be Romans!” She called. “For a diorama!”

Only John wound up in a sheet toga, but Sherlock agreed to wear the construction paper laurels. They suited him. When the shoebox was filled with modeling clay and uncomfortable looking action figures, John made omelets.

Without clubs or other friends, it was easy for John to meet Sherlock at the gates every day. It took two weeks before Sherlock stopped looking startled that he was there. They always went back to John’s house, ate dinner there and spent the evening doing homework together or having long arguments about things that had once seemed simple to John. If nothing else, Sherlock was good at muddying the waters.

On the third Thursday of their arrangement, Sherlock deviated from their usual path to duck into a Chinese take away shop. He emerged with a bag full of fragrant food.

“I saved his son from drowning.” Was all he would say on the matter and after that, he procured dinner every other night. It was a strange menu with John’s runny eggs one night and Indian the next, but the gesture was clear. They were partners and Sherlock would not stand for anything less than equal footing.

It took two months for someone to work up the courage to attack them again. This time they were ready for it. They ended the fight bruised, but unbloodied and their would be assailants in far worse condition. John couldn't say which one of them started laughing first, but the giggle fit saw them all the way home where John set about making tea.

“Back in a moment.” Sherlock called out and the door to the loo banged shot.

“Did you kill someone?” Harry asked, wandering in with a smear of paint over the bridge of her nose.

“Don’t you have homework to do?” He handed her a mug of tea and a biscuit. “You’re not supposed to paint until you finish it.”

“You’re not my father.” Her eyes widened in horror as soon as the words had left her lips. “I.. Johnny.”

“It’s ok.” He squatted down and opened his arms up. “I know I’m not.”

It was horrible timing, but he couldn’t very well order her to have a cry later. Instead they held carefully onto each other as she sobbed. Sometimes he forgot that she was nine not ninety or that she grieved as strongly as he did and in the same choked straight-faced way. Apparently it was genetic. By the time he had her sorted, it occurred to him that Sherlock had never reemerged from the bathroom. His stomach sank as he took up his cup and walked slowly to his room.

Sherlock had settled in John’s office chair as if he owned it, the damning folder spread across the bed. John pressed the hot cup of tea to his shoulder where a bruise was doubtlessly blooming.

“That’s private.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. You left it out for me to find.” Sherlock gestured at the pile of school assignments next to the typewriter. “The paper smells of dust and damp, you don’t keep it out in the open often and you would never forget to put it away.”

“It was an accident.” John fingers itched to snatch the papers from him, but the damage was already done. “Please just don’t say anything to my Mum, she’s already upset enough and-”

“I wouldn’t!” Sherlock protested. “Why would I?”

“Most people would.”

“I’m not most people.”

“Just forget them, all right?”

“I can't.” Sherlock reached out and flipped one glossy photo over. “I don’t forget things. Is this what it seems to be?”

“Yes.” He moved the mug to his forehead as if the warmth might scare away creeping hope rising in him. “I stole it.”

“From the police?”

“Who else?”

“I didn’t think you had it in you.” Sherlock looked nearly impressed.

“It wasn’t hard and it didn’t...well. They had closed it, hadn’t they? Only going to file it away and forget it.”

“You couldn’t let that happen.”

The images laid across the table were uniformly horrid. The burnt remains of his father stretched out on the ruined couch that once had held a happy family as they watched cartoons. Nothing remained to obviously mark the corpse as James Watson, but his son could imagine the flesh back over blackened bones, put loving brown eyes back in the emptied skull. He often did in his screaming night terrors, the ones that had put in him in Dr. Taylor’s incapable hands in the first place.

“You asked me a question...the most important question the day we met.”

“Arson or accident.” Sherlock repeated, almost reverently.

“The police said it was an accident.” The words were distant as if someone else spoke them. “That he fell asleep holding a lit cigarette. Open and shut. ”

“It isn’t.” Sherlock flipped over another photo, those quick cutting eyes moving inhumanely fast. The hope surged free, blossoming for the first time in months.

“I know.” He leaned into Sherlock’s side, violating all laws of personal space in his eagerness for confirmation and comfort. One long arm snaked out and wrapped around John’s waist, stiff and awkward, but unmistakably there. “Arson, Sherlock. It was arson. Someone murdered my father.”


	2. Chapter 2

The near empty train pulled out from the station leaving behind the last gasp of London. John held tightly to a strap, swaying into Sherlock with every bump and rattle. For his part, Sherlock stood arms folded and unmoving as a statue. He hadn't said a word since he’d convinced John to come with him that morning while the first streaks of dawn were still turning Saturday to Sunday. He’d appeared like a dark ghost in John’s bedroom, urging him to wake and dress. There was already a note in John’s handwriting on the kitchen table, a brief missive about a day exploring the city. John touched the arch of his perfectly forged signature, before offering Sherlock a weak smile and then they were off.

John knew where they must be headed and he found the quiet place in himself, locking away any number of difficult emotions. They were going to investigate a crime scene, nothing more or less. Not that he knew how one investigated a crime scene. They got off in John’s old neighborhood. Here Sherlock yielded to him though John didn’t doubt he could have found the way on his own. They crossed over silent streets and he tried not to notice the corner he used to linger on with his friends from rugby or the corner shop where he used to buy soda and comics.

“There.” He pointed up a slight hill where the houses huddled close together. Off a little to the right was one of their brethren, clearly wounded and it’s windows shuttered to the world. “It’s officially condemned, but Mum hasn’t signed the paper work to let them tear it down.”

“Sentiment.” Sherlock bit off.

“Yeah.” John shivered. “It’s weird. Seeing it like that.”

As they got close, the signs of the fire grew clearer. The door was only plywood nailed to the frame and not a single window remained intact.

“How did you get out?” Sherlock asked.

“You read the report.”

“Tell me again.”

John bit his lip and rounded the back of the house, pointing up to a second floor window above a porch awning.

“I woke up sweating. I went downstairs. I was only half awake.” He could see it now, the shadows dancing at strange angles as he descended, the smell of smoke violating his nose and mouth. “It took me a few seconds to realize what had happened. I yelled for my Dad, tried to see if he was on the couch. He was sleeping there when I went up to bed. I couldn’t get past the foot of the stair, too hot and I was a little out of my mind by then. That’s when I got burned. Ran upstairs to get Harry. Mum was working, thank God. The fire started climbing the stairs and the air was getting close. It took me a few tries to get the window open. We jumped out onto the awning...it shouldn’t have worked, but I didn’t have time to think. Nearly bounced out entirely, but in the end we both sort of slide to the ground. Harry sprained her ankle. I had to carry her to ambulance when it came.”

“What woke you?”

“Exactly.” John folded his arms. “I told you, that’s why I-”

“No. Not yet. I have to look at it without being contaminated with your theories.”

John nodded grimly. He watched dispassionately as Sherlock pried open the backdoor. It wasn’t technically trespassing. After all, it was still his mother’s property. The acrid smell of smoke filled the air as the door gave way to Sherlock's violent ministrations. Reaching into his satchel, Sherlock took out two torches. He passed one to John and they stepped carefully into the ruins of John’s life.

Everything had been turned black with soot and smoke. The walls had been a delicate blue once with photos hung in nice frames. Now the frames hung limp from their places, the pictures long since turned to ash. Sherlock stood in the middle of the living room, flickering his light around manically. To John there was only one point of interest. He moved forward slowly letting the light play over the couch.

“Yes, the point of origin. Look.” Sherlock moved his light to a particularly dark spot on the floor, then lifted his light up slowly illustrating the way the fire would have wicked up the couch to the walls. “Just as I thought. Was your father a tall man?”

“No. Short.” Like me, John thought.

“Did he sleep on the couch often?”

“Yes.” He replied tightly.

“And when he did, did he sleep in the middle or pillow his head on the arms?”

“Always on the arm. The right one.” He indicated with his light. “He practically sat straight up. It looked uncomfortable.”

“So a short man, sitting straight up. If he fell asleep, his arm would hang here.” Sherlock knelt down, touching a patch of fabric close to the right edge. “Practically a meter from the actual origin point of the fire. Even if he’d dropped the cigarette and it rolled, it wouldn’t reach where it had to be. If somehow it did manage to get there...what did it catch on? The room isn’t carpeted and the origin point is too far from the couch.”

“They said it caught on the wood floor.”

“Lacquered.” Sherlock shook his head. “It might catch, but it would take more than a dying ember of a cigarette. You were right, John. You were right.”

“Thank you.” He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, then exhaled. “Right. Now what?”

“You can tell me now. How you figured it out.”

“I didn’t, exactly. If I’d noticed what you did, maybe they would have paid more attention to me. Or not.” Everyone had kept giving him sad, understanding looks and offered candy or a shoulder to cry on. As if that would fix it. Make them right about what had happened. “I can’t talk about it here.”

“Why not?”

John paused, tempted to flick the torch light to his friend’s face, but he knew already what he’d see. Genuine confusion.

“My father died here.” He said patiently, “It’s upsetting.”

“He’s not here anymore.” Sherlock complained though he headed towards the door. “And they’re could be other evidence.”

“Maybe. We can come back if you really think so. For now, let’s get something to eat?”

Neither of them turned out to be very hungry. They both had coffees and together slowly dissected a defenseless cranberry scone at the local cafe.

“There were three things.” John finally said when the cafe began to fill up with people, forcing them from their table. It was easier to talk if he could just see Sherlock’s profile, still and thoughtful, instead of getting the intense gaze straight on. “The first two are simple and even my Mum thought they were weird, but not weird enough to pursue.”

“You told her?”

“Of course.” John knit his eyebrows. “You thought I hadn’t?”

“I assumed if you had, she would have done something about it.”

“Would your parents?”

“Not the same.” Sherlock waved dismissively. “Go on.”

“Right. First thing was that the smoke detectors never went off. I replaced the batteries on the one on the stairs the week before. It started beeping in the middle of the night, drove me crazy. When I told the officers, they got very tight lipped about it. Turned out the batteries weren’t in the thing at all. They figured I’d taken them out and not replaced them, then forgot about it. ”

“You wouldn’t’ve. Idiots.”

“I wouldn’t?” John almost stopped walking.

“You’re pathologically responsible. If they’d interviewed you for longer than five minutes they would have known that. You could no more forget to replace the batteries then shoot someone.” Sherlock spat out. “One obvious thing already. Second?”

“Dad didn’t smoke inside. Mum never let him, hated the smell.” He turned idly, heading away towards the city centre. There were benches there where only the birds would bother them. “There weren’t even ashtrays inside. Mum was ready to think the worst of him by then, so that’s why she shrugged it off.”

“And the police?”

“Figured a bloke might sneak a smoke inside while the wife was away.” He imitated the good ole boy officer, who had tried to laugh away a young man’s concerns. “Dad wouldn’t do that.”

“Why not?”

John chose a bench and they settled down with only a hairsbreadth of space between their bodies. Ruthlessly, John fought the desire to close the tiny increment and lace his fingers through Sherlock’s. The brief comfort wouldn’t be worth the inevitable fall out.

“Dad taught chemistry at the local secondary school.” He closed his eyes, blocking out the obscene sunlight. “When I was thirteen, a student accused him of hitting her when she went for extra help after school. Everyone knew she wasn’t right and that Dad had flunked her before, but her family had a title and it was her word against my Dad’s. No one ever found any proof either way, but he couldn’t keep teaching there after that and who would hire him? Mum said he was heartbroken, a nice way of saying he had a nervous breakdown.”

“How-”

“Let me tell it. Then you can ask whatever you want, ok?” He waited a beat, took the silence for agreement before plunging on. “He changed completely. Mum always worked weird hours, so he raised Harry and me practically by himself sometimes. He always took us seriously and gave the best advice. I thought he hung the stars. Then...after. He barely existed. He went through the motions, made us lunch and all that. But when we talked to him, it was like talking to a wall. He and Harry had this whole elaborate bedtime ritual that ended with reading a book together. When he became a wall, she would bring him the book and he would stare at it like he didn’t know what it was. Mum used to scream at him and he would put his head down and let her. Never said anything back. He stopped sleeping in their bedroom after a few months.

“We started pretending he wasn’t there. I wish we hadn’t. I wish I’d...doesn’t matter.” He swallowed hard, kept his eyes pressed tight shut. “I have to tell you all that because it leads to the third thing. A few weeks before the fire, Dad started to kind of...wake up. He started talking to us again. He even tucked Harry in the night of the fire, went through their whole old ritual. Mum never saw it. I think he was afraid to tell her or...I don’t know. I don’t know why he got better all of a sudden after two and half years. If he was getting better, why would he risk it by smoking inside? The smell would have been a dead give away and then Mum would have tossed him out for sure. Anyway, he knew how dangerous it was, he wouldn't have put us in danger, not even when he was a wall. Definitely not if he was getting better.”

“John-”

“He wouldn’t!” He realized he was yelling and didn’t care. “I don’t care what anyone says, Sherlock. My Dad would never have done it. He loved us. Do you believe me?”

“I already told you I did.”

John finally opened his eyes. Sherlock stared back at him.

“Repeat it. For me.”

“I believe you, John. Even without number three. The evidence is clear.”

“Do you want to go back to the house then?” John honestly couldn’t think of anything he wanted to do less, but he’d gladly let Sherlock vivisect him if he asked right now.

“No. Anything useful went up in flames or in some evidence lock up somewhere.” Long fingers steepled in front of Sherlock’s lips. It looked a little ridiculous. “We have evidence of a murder, but no suspects. Someone needed your father to die and they were careful about it. Sloppy in some places, but nothing the average person would notice.”

“I’ve thought over it for ages, but I can’t think of anyone who would remember he was even alive. Like I said he barely left the house. If he went around the corner to get milk, he’d be shaking when he got back. Being further then a few feet from the door made him nervous. Think it’s one of the reasons Mum never did kick him out.” He sighed. “That’s where I get stuck.”

“I need to think.”

They caught a train headed back, taking seats this time, facing each other though neither paid the other much mind. John looked out the window while Sherlock peered into the world only he could see. Their feet tangled in the middle, clumsy and close. When they neared their stop, John finally glanced up.

“I don’t want to go home. Mum isn’t expecting me and...” He trailed off.

“I need to think.” Sherlock repeated, focus still somewhere else.

“Fine. I’ll take myself off somewhere then.” He started to rise, anticipating the open doors. Suddenly, he wanted to be anywhere else, hands sweating from anger and embarrassment.

Warm fingers encircled his wrist.

“I also need you for information.”

“Yeah, all right.” And the urge to flee was gone as quickly as it had come. “So...”

“We will go to my house.”

“Really?” John asked before he could help himself. Sherlock finally came all the way back from wherever he’d gone and glared at him. “I thought you’d keep it mysterious forever.”

“It isn’t mysterious.” Sherlock stomped off the train, but he’d never released his grip on John’s wrist which dampened the effect a little. “It’s a house.”

Actually, it was a townhouse located exactly three blocks from John’s apartment. If one measured blocks in kilometers. He filed the confirmation of his long held theory away and said nothing to Sherlock, who already looked murderous. Not at John, but perhaps at himself for giving too much away.

“S’nice.” John offered as Sherlock dug out a key and thrust it into the lock like a dagger.

“Don’t speak.” Sherlock snarled, throwing the door open.

The furnishings were elegant, graceful and stiff. It was as if someone had decorated straight from a posh magazine and then never used any of it. Their steps echoed through the entryway.

“Is that you Mycroft?” A reedy woman’s voice called out.

“No, Mummy.” All the anger drained from Sherlock’s face leaving him as expressionless as the day they’d met. “It’s Sherlock. I’ve brought a friend.”

“Don’t leave him loitering in the hall! Bring him in.”

Sherlock walked slowly down the hallway, not delaying exactly. Instead he seemed to be gathering himself up for something. To John’s shock, a smile appeared on his friend’s lips, bright and normal. John suppressed a shudder.

Before they even entered the room at the end of the hall, John began to suspect something was wrong. The air smelled medicinal somehow, scoured clean and at odds with the ceder scent in the rest of the house.

“Mummy, this is John.” Sherlock went straight to his mother’s side, sitting on the edge of an elegant wingback chair. They made no effort to reach for each other.

She had been a beautiful woman once. He could see the remains of Sherlock’s cheekbones in her sunken features and her hair though gray tumbled down in familiar curls. The resemblance ended there. Her skin was sallow and loose, her expression vague and tired. A few machines beeped and clicked discreetly in the background, a constant ticking reminder of a life draining away.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mrs. Holmes.”

“A friend of Sherlock’s.” She said slowly as if savoring the words. “How nice. Do you know Mycroft?”

“No, m’am.” He glanced at Sherlock, but he was holding the same odd smile. “Just Sherlock.”

"He's a good boy, my Sherlock. Smart too." Her smile was a little lopsided as she pointed to her window. Someone had taken the time to manicure her nails, the paint gaily pink on her trembling hand. "You should go play outside with your friend Sherlock. It looks like such a beautiful day."

"We've come from outside." Sherlock even sounded different, cheerful and light. "Didn't we, John?"

"Oh, yeah. It's very warm out. Not a cloud in sight." He offered.

“Oh.” She sighed softly, eyes sliding closed. “That’s nice. That’s very nice.”

“Mummy?” When she didn’t stir, Sherlock carefully tucked her exposed hand back under the sheets. “Let’s go.”

They escaped up the stairs away from the lingering smell of slow death. John had a thousand questions, but he pushed them aside as irrelevant. If Sherlock wanted him to know, he’d tell him.

Sherlock’s bedroom was neater than John had imagined it, but given the rest of the house he doubted Sherlock would be allowed to maintain the desired level of chaos even in his own space. His personality seeped out around the edges of elegance. The walls held neat diagrams that usually hung in doctor’s offices: inner ear, digestive tract and skeletal system. Bookshelves lined the walls stuffed full of leather bound tomes and medical texts. The desk was a sprawling mess of papers, twine, small bones and a stuffed owl. An enormous bed dominated the room in heavy dark wood and a soft black comforter, turned up to reveal fresh white sheets. John was painfully reminded of his early wake up that morning.

“I don’t need you right away. You may as well sleep.” Sherlock slouched down into the desk chair exactly as he’d done dozens of times in John’s room.

He’d never slept in a friend’s bed before. Toeing off his shoes, he decided to keep everything else on and stay on top of the covers. It would be like he had nodded off while they were talking. That wasn’t weird at all. The plan worked fine until he put his head down. The pillow smelled of Sherlock, the faint lingering mint of his shampoo and the sharp tang of cigarette smoke. The cigarettes should bother him more, he thought as he closed his eyes, but it was a part of Sherlock and Sherlock was safe. He drifted off before he could think on it any further.

“John!” He was jolted awake with a rough shake, Sherlock’s hands on his shoulders.

“What...”

“You were screaming.” Sherlock pulled away as if burned.

“Yeah, I do that. Sorry. I didn’t think it’d happen if I took a quick nap. Usually only does if I sleep more than a few hours.” He rubbed at his eyes. “Night terrors.”

“Yes. Obvious.” Sherlock continued to back away.

“I’m sorry.” John repeated, staring down at his socked feet. There was a hole in the left one. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

“You didn’t.” Sherlock snapped, retreating into his chair. “I was about to wake you anyway.”

“You have questions?”

“One question. What was the name of the girl who accused your father?”

“Martha Henley.” John said immediately. “Why? I mean, she wasn’t right like I said. I can’t see her planning anything that complicated. And not after so long.”

“No, it wasn’t her, but she’ll know who it was. You said it yourself, John. Your father was nearly invisible after. The only notable thing that happened to to him was that accusation. It has to be connected to his death.” The recitation calmed Sherlock, draining the last of his concern away. “We need to talk to her. She’s the key.”

“I’ve no idea where she is.” John’s shoulders slumped. “They moved afterwards, who knows where?”

“Think, John. She’s from a titled family. They aren’t known for disappearing quietly. It will take a few days, but we can track her down.”

“How do we get her to talk to us? What if she recognizes me?”

“She won’t. I doubt she ever knew what you looked like and anyway, you’ve gone from thirteen to sixteen, you don’t look at all the same.” Now Sherlock smiled a real Sherlock smile, closed lips and sly satisfaction.

“You’re enjoying this.” John accused mildly, running a hand through his hopelessly disheveled hair.

“I told you. I like puzzles.”

“It should make me angry, you know. That you’re having fun with the worst thing that ever happened to me.”

“But it doesn’t?” Sherlock asked, the smile disappearing into a more wary look as if he were preparing for a punch.

“No. It’s sort of...comforting actually. Which is demented.” Stuffing his feet back into his trainers, John tried to keep his voice even and calm. “You’ll keep on as long as you’re enjoying yourself and it’s more than anyone else has ever done for my Dad.”

“I’m not doing it for him.” Sherlock said crisply.

The angry reply died before it left John’s lips as the implication of the statement sunk in and thickened the air between them.

“Sherlock.” A man appeared in the doorway. He was unmistakably Sherlock’s father, tall and skinny with the same quicksilver eyes. They pinned onto John immediately. “Ah. I thought she was raving again. The new medication sometimes causes hallucinations.”

“Father, this is John.” Sherlock looked frozen like a rabbit in the lights of an oncoming car.

“It’s nice to meet you, Mr. Holmes.” John offered his hand. The man ignored the gesture.

“In the future, Sherlock, please don’t annoy your mother with your vagrant friends. She needs rest now.” John glanced down at his clothes, which were shabby to be sure, but hardly those of a homeless person. “I know you have no respect for anything that doesn’t come from your own head, but do try to make an effort for her. She never will believe the worst in you and you know how she hates being proved wrong.”

“Excuse me-” John began, hot flashes of anger suffusing his skin.

“As for you, young man.” All too familiar eyes cut over his face. “I suggest you go home, wherever that is and cease all contact with my son. He may seem like your friend, but I assure you that he isn’t capable of such a thing.”

“Yes, he is.” Folding his arms tight over his chest, John stuck his chin out defiantly. “He’s a damn good one.”

“You’re playing with fire.” Sherlock’s father warned again, before turning on his heel. "Dinner is at seven, Sherlock. If you skip it there will be nothing in the larder for you to steal."

Like Sherlock, his footsteps were light and it took several heavy breaths before John was sure he was out of hearing range.

“He’s right, you know.” Sherlock spoke into the quiet. “I’m not capable.”

“That's utter shit.” John turned sharply, amazingly angry. “I don’t care what shit anyone has ever said to you, Sherlock. You’re a friend to me and everyone else can piss off.”

“They can’t diagnosis children with antisocial personality disorder.” Sherlock sounded impassive, but his body betrayed him, a knee ticking nervously up and down. “They call it a conduct disorder. The signs are there though. Lack of empathy, disregard for rules. I sham people into thinking I’m friendly all the time to get what I want. I’ve never tortured animals or been a bed wetter, but those are film inventions for the most part. I know what I am, John.”

“See that’s where you’re wrong.” Carefully, John crossed the room, drawing up close to Sherlock’s side to lay a hand on one trembling shoulder. “You have no idea who you are. Neither do I. Mum always says the point of being a teenager is to suss that all out. To figure out who you are before you’re stuck being an adult.”

“Major personality traits are all set by age seven.”

“Yeah, maybe. But at seven my Dad was still alive, I believed in God and Santa and thought the best job in the world was driving a lorry.” He let his thumb draw an idle circle, the sharp jut of a shoulder blade under his hand. “You’re not disordered. You’re different, but so what? All the best people are.”

“One day, very soon, I’ll hurt you.” The warning fell flat as Sherlock pushed up into the light touch.

“Maybe I’ll hurt you back.” John sighed. “Your dad is kind of a prick.”

“Only to me. We’re too much alike. He wants to leave her, you know. He would do it too if he wasn’t worried about his reputation. He only married her for the money. Now he’s got political aspirations.”

“That’s horrid.” John increased the pressure slowly turning the hold into a slow, awkward message. “Who would vote for him?”

“He’s charming when he has to be. Sociopath.” Sherlock turned his head a critical fraction to rest it against John's hip. “Mycroft always falls for it. I never did. It’s why Father hates me. To him we're exactly the same. He thinks I'll kill him one day.”

“You know how fucked that sounds, right?” John shivered, resisting the urge to bury his nose into his friend's hair. "You wouldn't, anyway."

"I would."

John trailed his hand from one shoulder across the back of Sherlock's neck. They both shivered.

"John." Sherlock said, not seeming to start any kind of sentence, only saying the name like a talisman.

"It's ok." John replied faintly, something twisting painfully in his chest.

A door slammed from within the house like a gunshot, echoing up the stairs.

“No offense, but I hate your house." John took a step away, shaken. "Go for a walk?”

“The library. We can look through the microfilm to chase down our lead.”

Shifting through months of poorly preserved newspapers should have been the makings of a very dull afternoon. Instead, John entered into a hazy unreality. In the next carrel, Sherlock worked in a methodical mania, clearing whole months of articles with barely a glance. Yet, every time John rose to get another reel, Sherlock would glance up and their eyes would catch. The electric second would leave them both flushed and breathless until John had to tear himself away or drown. It grew so tense that when Sherlock at last let out a soft gasp of discovery, John momentarily thought it one of pleasure. He had to take several deep breaths to cool his agitated nerves and silently thank his Mum for buying him pants a size too large.

“What is it?” John eventually abandoned his machine, daring to lean over Sherlock's shoulder. This close he could smell something under the mint and smoke. It was familiar and harsh. "Did you find where she lives?"

“That would be the cemetery. She’s dead.” He announced with relish. “Fantastic!”

“Why fantastic? I thought she was our only lead?”

“Suspicious circumstances!” One long finger jabbed at the screen. “Thought to be accidental suicide at first, an overdose, but her roommate and family claimed Martha hadn’t used in a year. The parents pushed for further investigation and the cause of death was changed. It doesn’t say why.”

“So?” He sniffed surreptitiously, mind now ensnared in two mysteries.

“Think John! Accidental suicide! It’s our killer. If we find out who killed her, we’ll know who killed your father.”

“Did the police ever figure it out?”

“I haven’t gone that far in the reels yet.”

John watched as the articles on Martha grew smaller and smaller until they were only a paragraph buried under mounds of other stories. The last was only an announcement of a charity started in her name to help teenagers with drug addictions.

“That name is familiar.” John whispered, inhaling again quietly. This time he got it. Aftershave! The same exact kind he used himself. Which was ridiculous. There was nothing on Sherlock's cheeks to shave away.

“The roommate.” Sherlock said reverently. “She works at the charity. Easy.”

“We can talk to her tomorrow then.” He replied vaguely, trying to process this new information. Sherlock was wearing John's aftershave. Stalker. Lovely, crazy, gorgeous stalker.

“Tomorrow?”

“It’s Sunday and,“ John checked his watch, grateful for the distraction “half past six. No one will be there right now.”

“Fine. Tomorrow then.”

Pouting, Sherlock pushed away from the machine, leaving John to re-roll the reels. When he looked up Sherlock was gone. Trying not to panic, he handed the cartons back to the librarian and headed outside. Had Sherlock guessed what he'd smelled? Had he read the whole story in John's face then taken off in embarrassment? Or worse, out of disgust? Had he misunderstood everything?

After working himself up, it was all for naught. Sherlock was leaning against the side of the building, steadily inhaling a cigarette as statuesque and emotionless as the day they'd met.

“How do you get a hold of those things?” John asked casually instead of thousand and one mad, dirty things he wanted to ask instead.

“Standing order for delivered groceries. Mummy used to smoke them and no one bothered to remove them from the list.” He took a long drag, eyes closed and still under their delicate lids. “Father wouldn’t bother checking such a thing.”

“They’re no good for you, you know?”

One of Sherlock’s eyes popped open as if the comment wasn’t worth both.

“I’m aware. Are going to lecture me?”

“No." He sighed. "Hungry?”

“No.” The butt flickered to the ground, crushed beneath the heel of a black boot.

“Liar.” John smiled and unthinkingly stretched out his hand. “Let’s go home then.”

Before he could retract the statement or the offer, Sherlock slid his fingers into John's grasp. Their palms met, clammy and calloused. The long cuffs of Sherlock's jacket draped over the joining, hiding it from prying eyes. They walked slowly, glancing at each other sidelong and tense. A soft blush spread over Sherlock's cheeks, but his grip on John's hand stayed strong and sure. When they reached the apartment, they lingered outside in silent agreement, letting go in tiny increments until it was almost like they were two separate people again.

“One day, very soon," John said softly, "I’ll kiss you.”

“Maybe I’ll kiss you back.” Sherlock smiled. It wasn't brilliant or charming or sly. It hung a little awkwardly like it might run off at any moment.

"Good." John pushed him gently towards the door, towards warmth, dinner and family. "That's good."


	3. Chapter 3

The first stone pillar of the Academy gates had become a touchstone. John leaned against the sun warmed rock and tried to think of nothing. The entire day at school had been an agony. Sleep had been elusive the night before and when it caught him, dreams blurred together messy and angry. He’d given up around three and spent the rest of the dark hours reading a worn paperback. Exhausted and addled, each minute in class had dragged like an hour. Finding Martha’s roommate was his last hope and the thought of failure soured his stomach. At least it would be settled, one way or another. At least it would be over. 

“John.” Sherlock cut easily through the thronging mass of students, ignoring the angry looks shot his way. “You look awful.” 

“Ta.” John managed a smile. Naturally Sherlock looked impeccable as always and John wanted desperately to reach for him. He felt certain that it would be immeasurably comforting to bury his face in the crook of that pale neck. An utterly cracked idea since nothing about Sherlock suggested comfort. He was all sharp angles, razor mind and cutting words. “Couldn’t sleep.” 

“You really have to get rid of those night terrors. Ready to head out?” There was an unholy glee in Sherlock’s eyes that John chose to ignore. 

“Yeah, all right.” 

The underground was packed and they stood close together. For once, John was simply too wound up to enjoy it. Some day soon he would have to schedule time to panic about being attracted to another boy, he decided. Preferably when he had some privacy and wasn’t concentrating on chasing after Sherlock like a demented sidekick from a comic....so probably never then. 

They got off in a dingy neighborhood. Unerringly, Sherlock led them to the right building and up several flights of stairs to the offices of the Martha Henley Foundation. 

“What are we going to tell her?” John whispered,.

“You’re only asking that now? Really, John.” Sherlock opened the door. 

There was a neat waiting room scattered with magazines and an antiseptic smell. A young woman sat behind a reception desk, her hair up in a messy bun. Behind her were a row of offices, soft conversations trailing out from under the doors. 

“Welcome to the Martha Henley Foundation, may I help you?” She asked without lifting her head to look at them. 

“Yes, Ms. Hooper. I believe you can.” Sherlock drawled. Her head snapped up. 

“Are you a client?” She asked unsteadily. 

“No, we have a few questions for you.” Sherlock tugged John forward. He waved sheepishly. 

“Oh...oh my god.” The blood drained from her face as she muttered in terrified gasps. “You...James... Oh god, oh god....You look just like him. But you can’t be....you’re his son, aren’t you?” 

Judging by the widening of his eyes, John guessed Sherlock hadn’t been anticipating that reaction. So much for no one recognizing him after so many years. 

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Did you know my Dad?” 

“Yes. Yes...I.” She swallowed hard. “He taught both of us at the same time. Martha and me, I mean.” 

“We need to ask you a few questions.” Sherlock cut in coolly. 

“Right. Yes. Of course. Let me just...” She jumped from her chair, scurrying down the hall. 

“That went well.” John observed. 

“Why didn’t you tell me you looked like him?” Sherlock asked irritably. “That is vital, John.” 

“Didn’t think I did.” He protested. “Way I remember him, he was like an old man. It’s not like we have any photos left to look at from before.” 

The idea that he might be forgetting already frightened him. He tried to summon up his father’s face as it had been before he’d broken down. All he could imagine was a starched version of the man he had become, indistinct and distant. 

Ms. Hooper reappeared wearing a coat and carrying her purse. “I’ve got a half hour for lunch. There’s a cafe down the street. No one will bother us.” 

They gathered around a rickety metal table, the din of other customers creating a curious privacy. 

“I always liked him as a teacher.” She spoke softly, preferring to stare down into her coffee then make eye contact. “He was good at it. Very fair. When Martha told me, I didn’t believe her at first.” 

“You mean when he hit her?” John asked bitterly. 

“No. Oh...god. Look, he was a good man, I think. But good people make mistakes, don’t they? They fall in love with the wrong person.” She pressed her hand to her forehead. “They keep secrets.” 

“He was having an affair with her.” Sherlock said blandly. She nodded slowly. 

It was like being punched in the stomach. His father had an affair with a student. It was impossible. Martha had been seventeen then, his father nearly forty. He would never have taken advantage like that, risked everything for what? Sex? 

“Pay attention, John.” Sherlock tapped his left hand. 

“But-” 

“Not now.” 

“Right.” He took a deep shuddering breath and pushed it down, locked it up. “So. An affair.” 

“I found out long after it was over. She never told anyone, except me, she said. We’d been friends in school, wrote sometimes after she moved. Then she got into drugs and disappeared for a while.” She drew a pattern in spilled grains of sugar. “When we found each other again, she’d been trying to get off heroin. I offered to move in and help get her clean. It was hellish.” 

“And that’s when she told you?” Sherlock asked brusquely. 

“Yes.” Her voice got quieter. 

“Why would she accuse him of hitting her then?” John asked through clenched teeth. “Did it end badly?” 

“No. No, nothing like that.” She glanced up at John then back down skittishly. 

“Why did the police change their minds about her death?” Sherlock pushed. “Why wouldn’t they go on thinking that a known drug addict hadn’t shoved too much junk into her veins?” 

“She wouldn’t!” Even angry, she couldn’t bare to lift her head, instead glaring furiously at her coffee.“Not after everything she did to get clean. The police didn’t believe me or her parents at first. Not even when I pointed out that she’d never injected the stuff before. She hated needles, she always snorted it.”

“What changed their minds?” 

“Someone broke into the flat two weeks after she died. They ransacked her room...mine..” Her voice cracked and she went back to staring down at the table. “They didn’t take any money or break anything. They were looking for something. After that, they had to listen to us. The case never went anywhere though. Not enough evidence, no suspects.” 

“But you knew, didn’t you, Molly?” In this parody of kindness, Sherlock sounded more terrifying than when he was shouting. “She told you and then made you promise not to tell. She’d put you in danger by confiding in you, so you had to play stupid. He was looking for evidence, but there wasn’t any, was there?” 

“How did you know?” She started to back up, reaching for her bag. “You shouldn’t know that.” 

“Whoever killed your friend, killed my father too.” John reached for her arm, pleading. “Please. Tell us.” 

“You’re just kids.” Her eyes welled up with tears. “You can’t change anything, do anything. It’s better if you don’t know.” 

“I have to know.” He couldn’t bring himself to release her arm though he knew they were starting to make a scene. “Someone killed him and I need to know why.” 

“You don’t need to know.” She licked her lips nervously then finally sat back down again. “You don’t, but. Someone should know, shouldn’t they? I never told her parents. I didn’t have any proof or anything. She was out her head when she told me....detoxing. It was brutal, but she wouldn’t go to a rehab. So I waited outside her room, locked the door and listened to her scream-” 

“What did she tell you?” Sherlock interrupted. “Be concise.” 

“She and James met up at a hotel sometimes. It wasn’t a nice place, but I guess they didn’t ask too many questions. After they...finished, they went back out to car. There were two men standing in a parking lot. One of them drew a gun. James and Martha ducked behind the car. She said there was soft noise, not like the gunshots you hear on telly.” 

“A silencer.” Sherlock guessed. 

“Maybe. Martha screamed. The shooter turned on them. She was sure he was going to shoot them, but he never even took out his gun. He told them that if they ever said anything, he’d kill them too.” Molly drew in a deep breath and let out slowly. “They agreed and he let them drive off. The next day, someone had filed a complaint with the police claiming they saw James hit Martha.” 

“Oh....oh! And when she tried to deny it, the shooter showed up.” Sherlock guessed. “He convinced her that it would be better to go along with it.” 

“Told her that if she agreed to the story, he wouldn’t tell everyone what had really been going on. All she had to do was never see James again, never tell anyone what happened. Then he pulled out a gun and made her hold it between her lips to remind her that he could kill her any time he wanted.” Molly reached for a napkin, wiping futilely at her eyes. “She did everything he asked. She would have agreed to anything after that.” 

“Why didn’t he kill them when they saw him?” John shook his head. “Why wait all these years?” 

“He liked having control. I’m sure he was keeping an eye on both of them all the time. Driving past their homes, tapping phones. It was a game.” Eyes now shut tight, Sherlock spoke as if from underwater. “As long as he kept them apart, kept them scared, they were his pawns. Maybe he would have kept it up for years. It worked on James, he terrified him into agoraphobia and near catatonia. But not Martha. She got clean and then she got stupid.” 

“She wasn’t stupid! How can you say that?” Molly cried. “You didn’t know her.” 

“I don’t have to. I know what she did.” He waved Molly’s words away like flies. “Three weeks before she died, she called James.” 

“You... how could you...” Molly stammered. 

“The shooter had kept tabs on them. She must have imagined he’d somehow forgotten about her. Foolish. She broke the rules of his game. Begged him to meet her somewhere. Clearly they did and that doomed them both. Why? Why risk it?” 

“She loved him.” She said weakly. “She told me that they were going to meet up. Just once, so she could explain what happened. They were careful.” 

“That’s why he came out of it.” John realized. “It wasn’t for my Mum or us... it was because he’d seen her, wasn’t it? That bastard...that....fucking...fuck...” 

A foot bumped his under the table, jarring and tender. 

“I’m sorry.” Molly reached across the table, patting John’s hand. It took everything in him not to snatch it away. “I’m so sorry.” 

“Hardly your fault. You only held onto to vital information that could have solved two murders.” Sherlock’s eyes snapped back open. “Now. The essential question. Who was the shooter?” 

“I don’t know. She never told me. I didn’t want to know.” This time when she reached for her coat, John knew she wouldn’t be persuaded to stay. “And you shouldn’t either. You should be outside playing football or chasing girls.” 

A soft snort of amusement issued involuntarily from John’s mouth. The idea of either of them going out and even pretending an interest in sports or girls broke him. Worse, when he looked up he found Sherlock smirking too and within seconds, they were both giggling like sugar high children. 

“There’s something wrong with the both of you.” Molly snapped and took her leave while they were still laughing, drawing annoyed stares from every corner of the cafe. 

It wasn’t until they were back on the train that the giddy release left John entirely. The crushing wave of sadness and anger that took it’s place staggered him. 

“My dad had an affair with a teenage girl.” He had to say it out loud, to watch Sherlock nod to confirm it. “He took advantage of a student and witnessed a murder. He never even tried to do the right thing.” 

“What would the right thing have been?” 

“To tell the police, even if it was a cost to himself. They would have found the first body or evidence that’s-” 

“Is it difficult being this dim?” Sherlock asked, one eyebrow tilted up imperiously. “Think, John.” 

“I can’t.” He groaned. “My head is pounding, I haven’t slept right in months, everything I knew about my father is a lie, how am I supposed to think when everything else is screaming-” 

“Shut up.” Sherlock commanded. John shut up. “Hysterics don’t suit you. Take a deep breath. Think about facts, not emotion.” 

“He wouldn’t go because of the affair, right?” He said miserably, “Even after he couldn’t teach anymore. Maybe would have gone to jail.” 

“Wrong! He would go to jail for this girl, he gave up everything else for her! How brave and heroic he would have looked to her if he’d gone to the police. That would have been worth it to him. Why didn’t he?”

Against all sense and feeling, John didn’t punch him in his snide mouth and storm off. Instead he tried to recall the conversation, pouring over Molly’s thin cracking voice for whatever subtle clue Sherlock had snatched up. 

“Oh...oh god.” He wrapped his hand around the cuff of Sherlock’s blazer. “The shooter is a police officer, isn’t he? That’s what scared my Dad so much. Every time he saw an officer or a cop car, he must have thought it was the shooter. You said he would have driven by the house, so sometimes it really was him.” 

“Exactly.” Sherlock turned his hand to catch John’s clinging fingers in his. “And we can catch him now.” 

“How?”

“He was at both crime scenes, I’m sure of it. He wouldn’t be able to withstand the temptation.” He glanced around the car, lowering his voice. “You know who it is already.” 

“I do?” 

“He would have been one of the ones that tried to point you in the wrong direction, one of the ‘compassionate’ men that told you that accidents happen.” 

“There were six or seven like that.” 

“And how many of them were at both scenes? There were only three officers there when Martha died.” Sherlock scanned the empty air as if it held an ocean of knowledge. “George Rowe, Alexander Calcutta and Sebastian Moran.” 

“Moran.” John squeezed Sherlock’s hand hard, fingernails cutting into soft skin. “He made a point of repeating his name to me. ‘A bloke might sneak a smoke inside while the wife was away, Johnny-boy, but if you need anything, you just ask for D.I. Moran.’ He gave me a peppermint. I binned it.” 

“Idiot.” 

“Well how was I supposed to know it was evidence?” 

“Not you, John. Him. His pride. Maybe he would have gotten away with it if he weren’t so sure of himself. It’s simple now. We find his address and get him to confess.” 

“We’re going to find a criminal mastermind, knock on his front door and ask him politely turn himself in?” 

“He’s hardly a mastermind.” Sherlock sniffed. “And I do have a plan.” 

“Let’s hear it then.” 

“Well. I have most of a plan.” He admitted begrudgingly. “Be quiet now and let me think up the rest of it.” 

Reluctantly, John fell silent and tried to concentrate on taking in steady breaths. Eventually Sherlock’s fingers twitched in his and he guiltily released his death grip. Four angry red half moons were neatly imprinted along the side of Sherlock’s hand. 

“Christ, sorry.” He rubbed a soothing thumb over the deep marks. 

“What for?” Sherlock asked absently. “You needed it.” 

Now that gave John something else entirely to mull over the rest of the way home. 

“I want to cut off my hair.” Harry announced when they crossed the threshold. She held a pair of safety scissors in her hand, looking mutinous. “I hate it.” 

“You love your hair.” John wrenched a gear, shifting himself back into his day to day life. “If you cut it off today it won’t grow back for ages.” 

“I don’t care!” She opened the blades and pressed a lock between their dull teeth. “I hate it!” 

“Harry.” He reached for scissors. “Come on, now. What’s this really about?” 

“It’s not about anything!” She tried to cut, but her hair only slipped out from between the blades. “You get to keep yours short, so why can’t I?” 

“If you use those, you will wind up looking like a hedgehog. And how exactly do your propose to cut the back of your own head?” Sherlock drawled. 

“With mirrors.” She bared her teeth at him and growled. 

“If you get me the shears from your mother’s sewing basket, I will do it.” 

“No you won’t!” John protested even as Harry squealed with pleasure and darted away. “You can’t just chop it off, Mum will have kittens.” 

“Will she be more or less upset that you’re investigating your father’s murder than a temporary change in appearance for her daughter?” 

“That’s not even close to the same.” He sputtered. 

“You’re both taking control of your lives.” Sherlock shrugged elegantly. “I think it’s exactly the same.” 

John closed his mouth with an audible clack of teeth. He turned to the stove and dedicated himself to making french toast, resolutely not turning around even when the soft snicking sounds of cutting started. 

“Look Johnny.” Harry’s hand curved around his elbow drawing him from the stove. The haircut was like something out of a magazine. It was very short, yet feminine with a soft fringe over her forehead. 

“It’s beautiful.” He reached out and brushed an errant strand into place. “Do you like it?” 

She nodded shyly. 

“When did you learn to do hair?” John looked over her head to Sherlock, who was ignoring them both in favor of studying some arcane crack in the ceiling. 

“It’s hardly neurosurgery.” 

John thought about the perfect manicure on a dying woman’s hands, the crisp edges of her tumbled curls. 

“Say thank you, Harry.” He prompted around the sudden thickness in his throat. 

“Thanks, Sherlock.” She threw her arms around his waist. Sherlock looked wildly to John for help. He mimed hugging her back and reluctantly, Sherlock did so. 

“All right, dinner. Wash your hands.” He commanded, taking pity on his friend. “Then we’re running through spelling words.” 

“Ugh. Fine.” Harry trudged off towards the bathroom. 

“Thanks.” John repeated when she was gone. 

“I’m not doing yours.” 

“Wasn’t going to ask. I like it shaggy.” He put a plate down in front of Sherlock and if he hadn’t been so close he would have missed the whispered,

“So do I.’” 

Sherlock didn’t reveal his plan that night if he had one at all. When John met him at the gate the next day, he looked unusually wound up. 

“This weekend,” he began before John could manage so much as a hello, “can I sleep over?” 

“Yeah, of course. I’ll have to ask Mum, but you’re in her good books right now. I told her how you averted Harry’s hair-mutilating disaster.” John frowned, “You’ll have to bring a sleeping bag or something. I don’t have one anymore.” 

“I can prepare adequately. I won’t be going home with you tonight. Or at all until Friday.” 

“What? Why?” 

“There are things I have to do.” Sherlock said mildly. “It’s only three days.” 

“Oh. Right.” Still, John felt stung. They hadn’t spent more than a day or two apart in weeks. but if he protested he was going to start sounding like the creepy stalker he always accused Sherlock of being. “See you on Friday then?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock started to turn, headed in the actual direction of his house for once. Then he paused. “Wait. Here.” 

Ducking through a rusted gate, he gestured for John to follow. The slim passage was dark and quiet. Sherlock rounded on him, taking a few vital steps forward to pin him against the wall. With great care, Sherlock dipped his head down until their lips were nearly brushing. Then he stopped, his breath warm on John’s face. 

“What are you waiting for?” John asked in a reverent whisper. 

“You promised.” Sherlock replied, equally hushed. 

“Yeah...yeah, I did.” Slowly as if Sherlock might startle, John closed the last gasp of space between them. 

Sherlock’s lips were dry and peeling, his breath reeked of cigarettes and he didn’t seem to know what to do with his hands. Their noses bumped together. Everything was too hot and shaking. Yet, it was easily the best kiss that John had ever had. He reached up to bury his fingers in thick curls, reveling in sheer sensuality of it. Carefully, he darted out his tongue, tracing a line across Sherlock’s lower lip. A soft catch in Sherlock’s breath encouraged him on. Long beautiful fingers finally came to rest on John’s waist. 

When it became impossible to breath, John pulled away fractionally. He littered softer kisses along the line of Sherlock’s jaw and down his neck. The thought of leaving a mark there at the juncture of neck and shoulder burned through him. 

“Yes.” Sherlock demanded, the word vibrating the skin under John’s lips. 

“Oh fuck...” John swallowed hard. “Sherlock...” 

His teeth and tongue set to work, pleased with the faint taste of sweat on smooth skin and the way Sherlock’s hands clutched at him. They writhed against each other lost and impossibly fevered until reluctantly, John lifted his head. The mark was gloriously red already and he licked it once more on principal. 

“I have to go.” Sherlock murmured, his hands still firmly locked on John’s waist. “What have you done to me?” 

“Dunno. Same thing you’ve done to me, I suppose.” He tilted his face up. “Once more. For luck.” 

“I don’t believe in luck.” But Sherlock kissed him anyway, tentative and sweet. “Friday.” 

“Yes, Friday.” John agreed, hazily then growled a little when Sherlock finally pulled away. “Don’t do anything stupid.” 

“I’m incapable of doing anything less than brilliant.” With a last flash of a sharp toothed smile, Sherlock was gone. 

As soon as John walked in the front door, he made a beeline for the bathroom ignoring Harry completely. Without real privacy, the best thing he could do was turn the shower on as cold as possible and stand under it until he felt fit to look his little sister in the eye again. In retrospect, he should have taken off his clothes first. 

It was only in his absence that John fully understood how omnipresent Sherlock had become in his life. He’d had close friendships before, even a girlfriend once for a few weeks, but nothing matched the intensity of their association. From the end of the school day until John dared sleep, there was a palpable loneliness that couldn’t be denied. Out of sheer desperation, he called friends from his old neighborhood to catch up. They all were happy enough to talk rugby for a few minutes, before going on with the lives that had left John behind. I What would happen when Sherlock left for good? It was inevitable, after all. Sherlock was brilliant and beautiful. Eventually he would have to notice that John was at best ordinary and at worst, irreparably damaged. 

Combined with the new information about his father, life became nearly painful to wade through. Depression dogged his steps and Dr. Taylor gave him more worried looks during their silent session then she had when he first started with her. Nightmares plagued him every night, ruinous and graphic. Out of sheer defense, he waited up for his mother rather than attempt to sleep. 

“Johnny.” She scolded on Thursday night, pulling his tousled head onto her shoulder. “What have I told you?” 

“I know, I’m sorry.” He sighed. “Mum, can I ask you something?” 

“Always.” 

“Why did you let Dad stay?” 

“Hmm.” She pursed her lips. “I wanted to keep our family together. It wasn’t something I chose once. Every morning I’d wake up and decide. Maybe if the fire never happened, one day I would have asked him to leave. I don’t know.” 

“How did you two meet?” 

“You know that story.” 

“Yeah, I know, but tell it again. Please.” 

“It’s not very exciting. We both went to the same New Year’s Eve party one year, thrown by someone we both knew at the time. Can’t remember her name now...Bernice, I think. I was feeling tired and a little shy, so I hung back against a wall. There was a man already there looking even more uncomfortable then I did. I remember exactly what he was wearing. Baggy trousers and a godawful lime green jumper. ‘Oh, God,’ I thought, ‘I hope he doesn’t talk to me’. But he did and he was actually very sweet and kind. We leaned up against that wall the whole night.” She smiled down at John, “Was that what you wanted to know?” 

“Mostly, yeah.” He mulled it over while she stroked a soothing hand down his back. “When you heard that he’d hit that girl...did you believe it?” 

“Johnny...” 

“Please, Mum. I just want to know, honest.” He sat up straight, trying to convey his seriousness. “Only, I’ve been thinking lately that I don’t have the whole story and I want to.” 

“This isn’t about the fire again...”

“No. Not really. He was gone before that, wasn’t he?” 

“Yes.” She smiled sadly. “I’d hope you’d never figure it out, but it was obvious, wasn’t it? I did believe it. That he’d hit her.” 

“Why?” He asked, genuinely bemused. 

“Because under the sweetness and the kindness, your father was a very angry man.” 

“Angry about what?” 

“Everything.” Shifting, she tucked her legs underneath her. It made her look oddly youthful and took John off guard. “He had a hard time growing up. There’s a good reason you don’t know your paternal grandparents. We were engaged by the time I really understood how deep it went. It was a warm night and we’d gone for a walk. A cyclist cut us off, nearly ran over your father’s foot. James snapped. He ran after the man, pulled him off his bicycle and punched him.” 

“Dad hit someone?” 

“Oh, yes. Not for the last time either.” 

A memory, faded and wispy, came back to John. His father taking his hand and showing him where to put his thumb. Together they practice punching a pillow. Dad had told him never to hit first. It was only for defense. 

“And you still married him?” 

“You’ll understand one day. You meet someone who fits you so perfectly that you’re willing to ignore their jagged edges. Or maybe your edges match theirs. I needed someone to be angry for me, I think. I’ve never been very good at it. I’ve made my peace with that and him, now. I keep hoping you have too.” 

Would she have forgiven him if she knew the whole truth? John couldn’t imagine she would. There had to be limits on what you would overlook even if you were in love, right? He decided then that he would never tell her. His father had done enough damage. 

“I’m working on it.” He offered. “ Mum, can Sherlock stay over this weekend?” 

“Yes, of course. ” Her smile lit up her tired face. “I can’t remember the last time you had a sleepover. Do you want me to make anything special?” 

“Don’t think we’ll really be here much. Just to sleep and such.” 

“I’m glad that you two found each other.” She levered herself off the couch. “He’s a very lonely boy.” 

“Sherlock?” It was true that Sherlock was alone, but John never thought him as lonely. The singleness was a part of him, natural as breathing. 

“Boys.” She shook her head. “It’s amazing what you don’t notice. Now off to bed with you, young man.” 

“Yes, Mum.” He dutifully kissed her cheek, before retreating to his bedroom to think. 

By Friday afternoon, he was practically vibrating out of his skin between the excitement and the coffee he’d drank to stay awake. The first moment he could, he was on his way out the door away from painfully boring classes and schoolmates. The sidewalk was already full of his peers, spilling out into the street. Among the tide of red and white polo shirts, one dark smear of blue stood out like a wolf among sheep. 

John’s heart decided that after sixteen years of regular beats, it wouldn’t hurt to skip one or two. 

“You got out early?” He wove through the crowd, coming to stand at Sherlock’s side. A large leather bag hung from one of his shoulders. 

“Career day.” Sherlock glanced around the crowd, clearly unimpressed. “Dull stuff.” 

“You skipped, didn’t you?” 

“You didn’t sleep at all, did you?” Sherlock mocked. “You’re no good to me like this.” 

“Sorry? It’s not as if I can help it.” John grinned. “So you do have a plan then?” 

“Yes.” 

“Which is...” 

“I’ll explain after you’ve slept. I dislike repeating myself.” 

“You’re going to make me take a nap?” He asked incredulously. 

“No.” 

“Good.” 

“You require a full night’s rest. A nap would only serve to make you groggy.” Sherlock started to thread his way through the crowd, John hot on his heels. 

“Won’t we need the whole weekend?” 

“One night will suffice. It’s not a military operation.” 

Sherlock refused to say another word about, turning the conversation to a paper he’d read about cloud formations. He kept to purely academic topics all through dinner, despite Harry’s loud complaints. 

“Go put something on the telly.” Sherlock ordered when the meal was eaten and cleaned up. 

“Oh! I borrowed The Goonies from George today.” Harry bounced out of her chair. “Can we watch that?” 

John wound up on one side of the couch, Harry sprawled half in his lap and Sherlock propped neatly on the other end. Usually Sherlock hated movies, but he watched this one with unusual fortitude and silence. Maybe he’d gone elsewhere given the unfocused look in his eyes. John felt himself drawn in, even laughing at some of the best moments. Harry laughed with him even when she didn’t quite get the jokes. 

“Another?” She asked as soon as it ended. 

“Not a chance in hell.” He shepherded her off to bed, trying not to rush through the reading or hugs though he desperately wanted to. 

Sherlock wasn’t on the couch when he emerged, Harry snoring lightly behind him. A quick search turned him up in John’s room, folded up into the office chair. Gone were his habitual layers and in their place soft looking gray pajama pants and matching top. He looked utterly vulnerable, all his hard edges rounded and indistinct. Just over the collar, a bruise was mellowing into yellow and green. John desperately wanted to taste it again, feel the texture of wounded skin under his tongue.

“I’ve never enjoyed being touched.” Sherlock rested his chin on one knee, not quite looking at John. “I assumed I never would.” 

“We don’t have...I can stop.” John offered though every single cell in his body screamed in agony at the thought. “It’s fine, really.” 

“You’re different.” It’s half an accusation, half curiosity. “Why?” 

“Dunno. Maybe because you like me? You don’t usually like people.” 

“I’ve read that sexual activity can induce sleep. Do you think it would help you?” 

“I could try. Go have a wank in the loo then.” John steadied himself on the door frame, trying to keep everything light. Everything fine. “Won’t take more than a few minutes.” 

“No. I have to know. Experiment. It’s important.” 

“You look like you’re preparing to get punched. Not exactly a great start.” 

“I don’t know how to do this.” The admission looked to physically pain him. John has mercy. 

“Neither do I.” 

“You’ve had girlfriends.” Brief confusion flitted over Sherlock’s face then settled into smug knowledge. “One. And you wouldn’t pressure her either, would you? Though you wanted to.” 

“I’m only human.” He shrugged. “Never with a bloke at all.” 

“No. Of course not.” One arm unwound from around the knees, an imperious hand held out. “Come here.” 

The floor creaked under his feet and the journey felt hours long. The arm wrapped around his waist, Sherlock’s head pillowing against his stomach. Now John was confident enough to sink his hand immediately into Sherlock’s hair, rubbing a little. 

“If we do this, you must never leave me.” The silky, frayed tatters of Sherlock’s voice were muffled into John’s shirt. “I’ll do something horrible if you do.” 

“I can’t promise that.” John swallowed. “What if you get sick of me? What if we grow up and we’re not friends anymore?” 

“Do you know how smart I am?” 

“Yeah, I do. You’re a genius. A clever, brilliant, beautiful genius.” 

“You don’t understand.” A huff of warm breath over his stomach set John’s nerves on fire. “I could be in college already. The therapists told my parents not to allow it that I’m socially behind my peer group. I’m not. I’ve never had any peers. Imagine being locked in a cage with monkeys and not the particularly clever kind and being told to socialize with them. It’s ridiculous.” 

“So I’m a not particularly clever monkey?” 

“Don’t be dense. You’re not and that’s the point.” Sherlock hissed. “If I have decided on you than it was a decision made with the full weight of my intelligence to bear. I don’t have the time nor the desire to date or any nonsense like it. If I have you, then you’re it. “ 

“That’s mad.” He protested, but already John could see the years unspooling in front of him. The idea of having Sherlock, really having him, for the rest of his life was like a genie granted wish: terrifyingly good and bound to backfire. “I can’t...”

“Say yes.” 

As if he knew full well what a strong weapon it was, Sherlock drew back enough to make eye contact with his eerily hypnotic gaze. John couldn’t look away if he wanted. He hadn’t the willpower. Sherlock was insane and dangerous. Not long ago he’d promised John he’d hurt him and John knew he’d live up to that promise. Probably many times. 

“Yes.” John vowed. “Yes as long as you do too.” 

“That wasn’t in question. Kiss me.” He demanded. 

They kissed until John tried to crawl into the office chair and nearly dumped them both into the floor. After a quick tussle they wound up on the bed, Sherlock up on all fours over John. In the intimate dark, he looked feral. Everything about the night was raw and dangerous, even the softer touches held promises of something sharper. They weren’t knowledgeable enough to be gentle and they were too eager to learn. Swift red lines, bite marks and tender patches would mar their skin for days. When it was over, John wanted only to stare his fill of Sherlock’s lean body draped over his own. He fell asleep still stroking the strong line of Sherlock’s spine. 

The sound of conversation stirred woke him long after the cool rise of dawn. Stretching, he took in a mussed sleeping bag and pillow next to his bed. He doubted Sherlock had spent more than a minute sleeping on the floor. The bed could barely contain the two of them and John had woken a few times in the night to find Sherlock draped on top of him for all the world like a cat soaking in the sun’s warmth. John lingered between the sheets for a long minute, luxuriating in the memory. 

That was the last peaceful moment he was destined to have for some time. Harry bolted into the room jumping onto his bed, hurrying him out to breakfast. His mother had presided over the cooking, leaving both Sherlock and Harry uninterested in their plates. John’s appetite overcame his taste-buds and he devoured his own and Sherlock’s plates. 

“What are you boys doing today?” His mother asked. 

“Nothing.” Sherlock perfectly mimicked a teenage nonchalant shrug effortlessly. “Walk around, maybe see a film.” 

“All right. Do you need any money, John?” 

“No, thanks.” 

They hurried through showers and into clothes, out the door before she could ask any follow up questions. It was raining in a steady annoying drizzle. They both turned up their coat collars and charged onward. 

“Where are we going then?” John asked when they turned the corner. 

“To Moran’s flat.” 

“Right...why?”

“Because we need to hide there before he gets home. He works the graveyard shift on Friday nights, then stops to eat on the way back. It’s nine now, we’ll arrive in fifteen minutes and he’ill get in twenty minutes after that. Sufficient time to set everything in motion.” 

“What’s everything then or are you just going to let me guess while we commit a crime?” 

“He did it first and far worse.” 

“Pretty sure the law won’t see it that way.” 

“The law has already failed you. Why worry about it now?”

“The plan, Sherlock.” 

“It’s already begun. For the last three days, I’ve been steadily building up his paranoia. Leaving notes around his desk at work, setting things so they’ll break around his flat. Calling him from payphones and not talking, things of that nature.” 

“Why the hell would you do that?” 

“I want him to think that your father’s ghost is haunting him. It was easy enough with a few key sabotages.” Sherlock grinned triumphantly. “By Thursday he was jumping at shadows and every creak in the floorboards.” 

“You’re telling me you’ve been breaking into this man’s flat for days?” John gaped. “What if he caught you? What happened to not doing anything stupid?” 

“It was safe enough. The air vents in his building are enormous, it’s laughable really. I gained all sorts of useful information from his phone calls. He also talks to himself.” 

“I can’t believe you.” John grabbed his arm. “You can’t go off on your own doing crazy shit like that. What if something had happened to you? I wouldn’t even know where you were!” 

“You would have given the game away.” Sherlock tried to wrench his arm away, but John’s grip was strong. “Why are you worrying over this now?” 

“You can really be a selfish twat.” He dragged Sherlock into him, ignoring worried looks from other pedestrians. “Listen to me, you’re not alone anymore and you can’t act like it. If you’re doing something boneheaded, I have to be there too. Got it?” 

“I could hardly miss it.” Sherlock sighed dramatically. “Fine, next time I’ll tell you.” 

“Promise me.” John shook him a little. 

“John-”

“Promise, Sherlock or I swear to God we really will just go see a film today. A really dumb one.” 

“I promise.” He pursed his lips. “Would you really give up on a chance to get your father’s murderer for a movie?” 

“No. I’d give up on it to be there with you the next time.” 

“There’s no next time, John. We’re going to get him.” 

“There’ll be something else, another mystery.You love them too much to stop here.” John let go of Sherlock’s arm. “And I’ll be there with you. Now tell me the plan.” 

They spent the rest of the walk and the initial climb into the duct system going over the plan and then arguing about it. By the time Sherlock had wavered enough to allow that it was a little overcomplicated, it was too late. They were already waiting inside the air duct above Moran’s rickety kitchen table. With athletic ease, Sherlock dropped into the kitchen to add the vital drops of LSD to Moran’s teapot. When John had pressed him about where the drug came from, Sherlock had retorted ‘my father’ and John thought it wise to leave off questioning there. 

Footsteps sounded outside the door and Sherlock leaped for the table, grabbing John’s outstretched arms. They huddled together in the tight shaft, watching as the front door swung open and Moran stepped inside. A tidal wave of anger crashed over John, taking him by surprise. He wanted to tear this man to pieces. 

The tactical assault on Moran’s piece of mind had clearly taken it’s toll. They watched as he checked the lock twice, then took four measured steps away from the door. The counterweight Sherlock had installed took only seconds before tumbling the lock audibly open again. Moran cursed loudly and pulled a chair from the kitchen to wedge under the door. Then he disappeared deeper into the apartment. Water pipes clanged. 

“I treated the mirror yesterday morning before school.” Sherlock whispered. “If the reaction works properly, when he gets out of the shower, the word ‘Murderer’ should show up in red.” 

John didn’t dare talk, but he did lean over and brush a kiss over Sherlock’s cheek. They waited in silence for another few minutes until the water ceased and a man’s angry yell could be heard through the bathroom door, then a tinkling sound of shattered glass. A shaken Moran, bathrobe held around him like armor, came into view again. He made a beeline for the kettle filling it with water and setting it onto the stove. When it whistled, he nearly scalded himself pouring out a cup over a teabag then splashed a generous amount of milk into it. The mug went with him back out of sight and the television clicked on. 

“It will take at least fifteen minutes to kick in properly.” Sherlock said on a soft exhale. 

Now John understood why Sherlock had been so emphatic about being well rested. The air duct was close and warm and they couldn’t risk much movement. The adrenaline might have kept John awake, but it wouldn’t have been the keen alertness that the situation required. 

Eventually they could hear agitated ranting over the television sound track. Sherlock nodded sharply and they both descended into the kitchen as quietly as possibly. Moran’s shadow twitched along the wall, marking a restless pacing in the living room. Taking a deep breath, John prepared himself and then stepped right into the man’s path. He said nothing, but tried to summon the kind of expression a dead man would level at his killer. 

Confronted dead on, Moran was larger than John remembered. Someone had flattened his nose a long time ago, giving a bull like effect to his nostrils as they flared in anger. The drugs had blown his pupils wide and his hair looked windswept. If Moran had ever had a shred of sanity, he had lost it now. 

“Watson.” He growled. “You snivelling pathetic coward.” 

John slowly lifted a finger, pointing it at Moran. A slow, malicious grin crossed Moran’s face. It curdled John’s gut, but he held his ground.

“You don’t frighten me.” Moran laughed, high and manic. “You’re just as helpless as you were alive. Don’t know why you’ve bothered coming back, your life wasn’t worth much. Did the world a favor, I think.” 

‘Murderer’ John mouthed, not daring to look for Sherlock, who should be recording all this. As soon as they had enough on tape, Sherlock would hit Moran over the head and they could escape back up through the air ducts to send the tape on to the police. Reaching inside his robe, Moran pulled out his gun, the smooth tight extension of the silencer screwed on, blowing the plan to smithereens. 

“Can ghosts bleed, James? Let’s find out.” 

“No!” Sherlock leaped out from his hiding space, slamming into a startled Moran. The gun went flying. Sherlock’s vast experience with fending off schoolyard bullies was no use here. Within seconds, Moran had him pinned against the wall, one hand clamping down on Sherlock’s throat. 

“Who are you? I’ve seen you on the streets all week, you freaky shit.” Moran lifted Sherlock up and slammed him against the wall. “Did you do this? Do you think your funny? I’ll kill you!” 

“Get your fucking hands off of him.” Utterly calm, John held up the relocated gun. “Or I swear to God I’ll kill you.” 

“Put that down!” Moran barked, hand closing tighter around Sherlock’s throat. 

“Let. Him. Go.” 

“Fuck. You.” Moran mocked and tightened his grip until Sherlock wheezed. 

Carefully, John took aim and fired. It took only the briefest moment, but he managed to think about quite a lot before the bullet hit. He thought about how his life would never be the same, how he might have to go to prison or worse go on the run somehow. Most of all, he thought that he would kill a hundred men to keep Sherlock alive. It was a dangerous thought, electrifying and harsh. Whoever he would 

The bullet caught Moran in the temple. He stood stock-still for a painful second, before collapsing slowly to the floor. Sherlock backpedaled across the carpet, escaping the dying man’s reach. John dropped the gun and rushed to his side. 

“Are you all right?” He fluttered his hands over Sherlock’s neck. 

“Fine.” Sherlock croaked. “We need to destroy the evidence.” 

“Right. The gun first, yeah?” 

They worked haphazardly, Sherlock dismantling his sabotage and John trying to erase all signs of their presence. After a few frantic minutes, John wiped the gun down a paper towel doused in dish soap and water. When it was as clean as it could get, he shoved it into Moran’s hand trying to not to touch the rapidly cooling flesh. With far less squeamishness, Sherlock repositioned the corpse to suggest it had fallen from the couch after a self-inflicted gunshot. 

“Leave the rest of it.” Sherlock rasped when he was finished. “It’ll look like a drug induced suicide. The smashed mirror and everything. If we wipe the last minute of the tape, we might be able to leave it.” 

“It’s a lost cause.” John picked up the recorder. “Why would he be recording his hallucinations? He’s dead now. He can’t hurt anyone else.” 

“But John-” 

“Let it go.” He snapped, pulling himself up into the airduct. “We’ve done enough today, don’t you think?” 

They cautiously clamored out onto the street, watching for anyone that might see their unusual passing. No one looked at them. John shoved his hands into his pockets and started walking. 

“We need an alibi in case they piece it together somehow.” He said softly. 

“Don’t be foolish.” The usual harshness had gone out of Sherlock’s insults. He was watching John carefully with an odd mix of reverence and concern. “They’ve no way to link us to the scene or to Moran.” 

“What about your neck?” 

“Another beating from our local friends. I’m sure I’ve earned someone’s ire- oh. Not good.” Sherlock slowed, reaching out to wrap a hand around John’s wrist. 

“What? What? Are we caught?” John looked around wildly, all the repressed nerves of the morning rushing to him at once. “Shit, shit. Is it the police?” 

“Worse.” Sherlock groaned. 

A long black car pulled up to the sidewalk, the back door opening to reveal a trim young man in a dark suit. He looked at them expectantly. When neither of them moved, he tapped his watch and raised an eyebrow. Reluctantly, Sherlock got into the car, pulling John along with him. 

“Who is that?” John hissed. 

“Mycroft Holmes.” The man in the black suit intoned, not holding out his hand as they clamored into the seat. “Sherlock. What have you done?” 

“What needed doing.” Sherlock threw himself petulantly into one corner of the car while John surveyed this new player warily. 

“John Hamish Watson.” Mycroft gave John the same skin peeling look that Sherlock had leveled at him so many months ago. “I’ve let your friendship with my brother continue this long because I thought you might be a good influence on him.” 

“Let?” John sputtered. 

“Sherlock is an unusual mind. He needs someone to watch over him.” 

“If you're so concerned about him, how come he keeps getting beat up?” 

“Good question.” Sherlock said grimly. “Maybe it’s because he finds if funny.” 

“You and your friend have just killed a man. ” Mycroft already perfect posture slid up another stiff notch. “That is the issue at hand.” 

“He was a murderer.” Sherlock spat. “And it was self-defense.” 

“I don’t have the wherewithal to cover this up.” Mycroft pinched his nose. “I hope you know that, but-” 

“Please. No one will think it was us. We don’t need your help.” 

“For once in your life, Sherlock, would you just listen?” 

“No.” Sherlock glared. “I don’t think I shall.” 

“I’m listening.” John cut in. “I would rather not go to prison, thanks. How’d you know we killed him anyway?” 

“Father noticed Sherlock didn’t come home last night. I had someone follow him to ensure he wasn’t up to something.” Mycroft sniffed. “And of course, he was.” 

“I told him I was at John’s!” 

“Yes. Because you’re so prone to social engagements. He assumed you were lying, obviously.” 

“Who followed us?” John asked, now thoroughly muddled. 

“One of his minions.” Sherlock kicked at the door. “He’s building a power base.” 

“They’re called friends.” Mycroft said as if to a small child. 

“You don’t have friends.” 

“Neither do you!” The thin veneer of civility stripped cleanly from Mycroft and suddenly, John could see the resemblance between the brothers. Their eyes lit with an inner rage and clever madness. “You were bored, you found a puzzle! You’ll forget all about him now that it’s solved.” 

“I will not!” As if electrocuted, Sherlock was up from his corner, closing the space between himself and Mycroft. It wasn’t just some puzzle! You left me alone, left me in that house with Mummy calling for you and Father picking away at me. You let them drag me to therapists, let them keep me in that bloody school until I was half-mad! I’m sorry I didn’t buckle under it like you expected and become you’re perfect self-satisfied clone. I found someone who cares about me. Be jealous, ruin me or him, but it will still be true. You’ll always be alone and I won’t. So fuck off, you supercilious prick!” 

Mycroft had turned steadily redder as Sherlock ranted, but he said nothing. He only closed his eyes and took several very deep breaths, then knocked on the glass dividing them from the driver. The car started and pulled out into traffic. Slowly, John reached across the seat and took Sherlock’s hand in his. 

“Are you going to turn me in?” John asked. 

“No.” Mycroft sighed. “Sherlock is correct. It is unlikely that they will link the crime back to you. The real question is, will you turn yourself in?” 

“No.” The answer came to him without thought. 

“I see.” And John was sure that somehow Mycroft did see all of it and far more than John quite knew himself. 

The three of them hung in a tight silence until the car finally pulled up in front of the cinema down the street from the Watson flat. As soon as the car had stopped, Sherlock burst out of it, slamming the door behind them. Mycroft reached into his pocket and produced two tickets for a noon showing, handing them gravely to John. 

“Keep the stubs. It hardly works with the timeline, but no one will think two teenagers could plan such a thing then skip off to a movie.” 

“Thanks.” John took them, staring down at the little strips of paper. They seemed so ordinary. He grabbed for the door handle. 

“And John?” 

“Yes?” 

“You may think this was a skirmish, but you’ve chosen a side in the beginning of a long war. Plan accordingly.” 

“Uh, yeah, all right.” Bemused, John finally escaped the car. It pulled away quickly. 

“I loathe him.” Sherlock said, viciously kicking a telephone pole. 

“Beginning to see why now.” John sighed. “Come on, then. Better go watch that movie.” 

Inside the dark theater, Sherlock rested his head on John’s shoulder and whispered, 

“Are you going to go into shock?” 

“No, don’t think so.” John sighed, draping an arm over Sherlock’s shoulders. “You?” 

“Unlikely.” An indignant huff then, “That was very brave. What you do did. It was...good.” 

“Yeah, I know. Regular hero, me.” He nearly laughed, but instead he dropped a kiss into Sherlock’s wild curls. “Let’s never do anything like that again, ok?” 

“Unless it’s a really interesting.” Sherlock grinned, flashing white teeth in the dark. 

“Yeah, all right.” Then they did laugh, right along with the movie’s awful soundtrack. 

**Epilogue - One Month Later**

Placing the flowers on the grave left him empty handed and tongue-tied. He’d come out here intending to confess all to the one person to whom it might matter, but the thought of speaking secrets to deaf stone and dirt no longer appealed. John still felt guilty about lying to his mother about everything that had happened, but otherwise had no regrets. He wondered sometimes if he should. 

“It’s been really weird since you died.” He told the grave. “I don’t think you’d be happy with anything I’d done and I’m pretty angry about some of the stuff you did. Neither of us can really apologize now though, can we?” 

He lingered for another few minutes, but nothing else came to him. He said a quiet goodbye then turned on his heel and headed back to the train station. As soon as he’d settled in his seat, he took out his notebook and started to write. He wrote about a flock of crows and a boy with smoke for hair, let the story take him from the rattling tracks and the low conversational hum of the other passengers. It lingered with him even as he walked the few blocks home and up the stairs. He could imagine thick charcoal drawings alongside it, a dark adventure story. 

The door to the flat hung open and the faint smell of something burnt wafted out. Catapulted by fear, John took the last few steps in seconds. 

“Harry? Harry!” 

The kitchen held no smoke, but it was spattered in thick red liquid. It slashed across Harry’s throat and the fine length of Sherlock’s fingers. They sat together at the table, bent intently on their work. 

“Johnny! You’ll never guess what happened!” Harry bounced in her chair. 

“A massacre?” He asked faintly, leaning back against the door. 

“Sherlock figured out how to make jam! He said babysitting was boring, so we should experiment instead. We bought sacks and sacks of berries, a huge bag of sugar and all sorts of jars. And now we’re doing the best part!” She held up a jar that was indeed full of a thick red jam.   
“We’re making labels!” 

“That was not the best part.” Sherlock picked up a jar and held out it out to John. “The best part was when the first pan exploded.” 

“Is that what happened? Who’s going to clean it up, I wonder?” John took the jar, turning it to find the square white label. 

_Holmes and Watson Inc._ read the label in Sherlock’s spiky lettering. Harry had doodled a credible looking strawberry underneath. John smoothed his thumb over their joined names. 

“I can help.” Harry offered dubiously. “But I don’t think I can reach some of the spots.” 

“Go get the mop, then. We’ll start on the cupboards.” John ordered, waiting for her to turn away. He leaned down to brush a kiss over Sherlock’s berry stained lips. “You’re helping.” 

“I watched the girl all afternoon and made you food. I think I deserve a break.” Sherlock pouted until John nipped at his bottom lip. 

“You deserve a lot of things. But sadly, today you’ll be helping me mop up, Cinderella. I’m pretty sure there’s jam on the ceiling.” He pulled back, heading toward the sink and the giant pot still puffing out steam sitting in it. 

“John?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Do you still promise?” 

John turned back around. Sherlock had picked up another jar, meticulously writing on the label with the black felt tip marker. His hair was a tangled mess, his usually neat clothes were wrinkled and dotted with jam and John knew that he’d weasel out of helping to clean somehow. 

“Yeah, of course I do, you idiot.” He grinned at Sherlock’s offended expression. “I said I did and I meant it, but I’ll tell you every day if you need the reminder.” 

“Yes.” Sherlock didn’t look up, but the marker paused on the label leaving a steadily growing blotch of dark ink. “I might.” 

“I can do that.” John said thickly. “As long as you do too.” 

“Yes, John, I promise.” 

The pen started moving again, turning the blot to the flourish, a strong underline to their two names that blurred them into one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Whew! Thanks for reading this far along and I hope you enjoyed it! The boys will be returning in a less plotty sequel about how their early meeting changed their lives.
> 
> Want to comment but prefer to do so on LJ? [Feed the Author Here ](http://dragons-muse.livejournal.com/65794.html)


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